


Recuperation Coda

by JackofSomeTrades



Series: Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, I mean it's pretty mild smut I guess?, Oral Sex, PWP, gallya, i don't even know - i need to get over my embarrassment at writing smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackofSomeTrades/pseuds/JackofSomeTrades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby and Illya get a bit of time alone in the safe house after the events of The Kiss You Deserve. Smut ensues.</p><p>  <cite>“Illya? Ist alles ok?”</cite></p><p>  <cite>He doesn’t answer her directly, just continues to lean against the doorframe, watching her. The sunlight turns his bed-rumpled hair gold, stains his bare skin. She’s never seen him this unguarded - half-asleep, bare-chested, a thin pair of pyjama trousers hanging loosely from his hips. Her pulse jumps as he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it more. The muscles of his arm and chest shift with the motion, and the quiet of the room tightens into something sharper.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Recuperation Coda

**Author's Note:**

> This little coda was an attempt to rectify the lack of Gallya smut in the last few chapters of Kiss and also a way for me to practise writing said smut because apparently author-me is easily embarrassed and finds it super difficult… I don't have a beta so apologies for errors etc.
> 
> It helps if you have read The Kiss You Deserve first, as otherwise this is pretty out of context!
> 
> In other news, I do have an idea for a sequel to Kiss, another 10 chapter job, which I have no idea when I’ll have time to write. It’s a little crazy, my idea, so um – watch this space?

**Geneva**

She’s almost drifted off twice now, due to a toxic combination of warm afternoon sunlight, incredibly dull intelligence reports and a silent, peaceful apartment.

Waverly had left soon after Yael, chasing a fly caught in a different part of his web. He’d left behind a pile of intelligence from their raid on the THRUSH facility for them to sort through. Napoleon had stuck at it for a couple of hours yesterday before declaring he was going out to get fresh air. He’d rolled back in at about midnight and then disappeared off early this morning, promising to be back for dinner.

Illya hadn’t been much help either – his body was still processing the heavy sedatives and the cocktail of drugs Fischer had pumped into him, so he’d been awake for about three of the twenty-four hours that had passed since he first woke up, and had been groggy as hell for those three.

Which leaves her doing the heavy lifting, curled up in an armchair in the safe house sitting room. She’s developed a simple filing system of three piles – interesting documents, uninteresting documents, and incomprehensible documents.

She’s read the same paragraph three times now, heavy-lidded and fuzzy-headed. Giving in, she snuggles into the sunniest corner of the armchair and lets her eyes drift closed, one leg stretching out across an armrest to dangle in a warm pool of light. Time seems to slow, the silence weighing each second down. The paper drifts from her fingers onto the floor.

A faint creak from the doorway startles her awake again.

“Illya? Ist alles ok?”

He doesn’t answer her directly, just continues to lean against the doorframe, watching her. The sunlight turns his bed-rumpled hair gold, stains his bare skin. She’s never seen him this unguarded – half-asleep, bare-chested, a thin pair of pyjama trousers hanging loosely from his hips. Her pulse jumps as he runs a hand through his hair, mussing it more. The muscles of his arm and chest shift with the motion, and the quiet of the room tightens into something sharper.

“Sleeping on the job, little one?”

“Trying to figure out THRUSH’s chain of command from disparate stolen files doesn’t count as the most exciting way to spend the afternoon.”

“Would you like something more exciting to do?” His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are dark and alert, underlining the blatant intent of the statement.

“Illya, you’re in no state to be out of bed yet.”

He shrugs disingenuously. “Plenty of excitement to be had in bed.”

Her stomach clenches in anticipation, even as she shakes her head.

“Don’t tempt me, Illya. You’re not recovered yet.”

He pads across to her, resting his hands on each arm of the chair, leaning down and trapping her in place. His eyes lock onto hers, and ridiculously, she’s nervous.

“Am I tempting?”

Her eyes flick down to his taut, scarred chest, the smooth planes of his torso disappearing into the loose cotton pyjamas, then up to the two-day old shadow accenting his jaw, the full lips, the straight nose. The warm bed-smell of his skin overlaying the faint scent of his soap. She drags her gaze back up to meet his eyes again. She’s reminded of the hotel room in London, the first time he’d kissed her properly. He’s got the same look in his eyes – steady, sure, sinful.

Oh, she’s in trouble.

She realises she’s biting her lip, and he doesn’t even press her for an answer, just smiles in satisfaction and lifts her over his shoulder.

“Illya! You idiot – you’re still recovering! Put me down!”

It makes no difference, and to be fair to him, he doesn’t seem to be struggling. He carries her through to his bedroom, deposits her on the bed and steps back, considering the best way to proceed.

This is getting to be something of a pattern. In London and Paris, he had been intent on pleasing her, turning every attempt she made to return the favour back on her, keeping the focus away from him. It’s not a fatal flaw in a partner, to be honest. But she knows enough of him now to sense that he struggles with the concept of allowing himself pleasure.

“Illya, stop planning this out. This isn’t a chess game.”

His eyes flip up to her face, confused and a little hurt. She tugs him down on to the bed next to her.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some rules.”

“You have no complaints before, малютка,” he grumbles.

She nudges him on to his back and straddles him. The idea of watching him come apart under her hands for once is enticing, but he won’t let her do it willingly. With Illya, there always has to be some denial, some hardship.

“Rule one. Your hands stay by your sides. No touching.” He starts to complain, but she grinds gently down into him and his eyes darken. She raises an eyebrow at him until he nods slightly.

“Good.” She slowly unbuttons her shirt, slipping it off her shoulders.

“Rule two. You will tell me what you feel. I want to know if it feels good, if it’s not right, if it’s too much or not enough.” His eyes widen slightly, as if she’s explaining an alien concept.

She unbuttons her pedal pushers and pushes herself upright to slip them down as he watches her, fingers twisting into the bedsheet. She slides back to her knees, pressing into his hardening cock, feeling the twitch as his body responds to hers through only two thin layers of fabric.

“Rule two, Illya?”

He bites his lip, clearly torn by some ingrained, internal rule.

“Are you going to behave, Illya? Because I could just go back to my paperwork…”

“Нет. Stay. I’ll behave.”

“So, rule two?” She wriggles again.

He gasps. “Good! Yes – that’s – das ist gut.”

“Okay then.” She traces the scars on his chest with her fingers, running them down to the edge of his pyjamas, toying with the drawstring.

“But малютка, wouldn’t you rather…what about you?”

She rolls her hips again and his groan rumbles through her palms.

“Rule three. Don’t complain.” He frowns, resisting. She stops herself from rolling her eyes – it’s not his fault the KGB did a serious number on his concept of self-worth.

She flattens herself across his torso, pressing her skin to his and bringing her lips close to his ear. His body goes tense, still, knuckles white from gripping the sheets. “Illya,” she purrs, “do you remember that afternoon in Paris, when you spent an hour between my legs, making me see stars over and over?”

Her hand is on his chest and she can hear his heart hammering. She hopes he really _is_ recovered from his run-in with Fischer.

“Did it make you feel good – to make me fall apart for you like that? To take me to pieces, calling your name?”

“Да,” he breathes.

Her fingers draw little circles on his sternum, her breath soft against his ear. “I want to see you moan like that for me, Illya. Because it will feel just as good for me, I promise.”

She sits up, still straddling him, and picks up one unresisting hand, guiding it between her legs. She’s already wet with anticipation, and as she presses his fingers to the right spot through her knickers, it’s tempting just to let him stroke and lick her into oblivion as he had that day in Paris. It’s only the look on his face which steels her resolve, the incredulity that she is getting off from giving him pleasure.

“Rule three, Illya?”

There’s a long pause, then he nods, dropping his hands back to his side obediently.

“Good.” She slips down his body, allowing herself the pleasure of the friction with his torso. His cock is now straining against the cotton pyjamas, and she can’t stop herself moaning slightly as she eases herself over the bulge. His hands clench the sheets again, his head straining up to watch her progress.

There are no further interruptions while she undoes the drawstring tie of the pyjamas, forcing herself to move slowly. He wriggles to let her ease the fabric down past his hips, finally compliant.

It’s a wonderful sight – Illya naked and stretched out along the bed for her. She’s been imagining doing this for a while now, the feel of him in her hands, the power of giving pleasure. She runs one finger along his length, then follows with her tongue, slipping her lips round the head of his cock when she reaches it and giving it a light suck. His hips shift just from this opening move, and she looks up to see his expression shift between confusion and desire.

“Has no-one ever done this with you before?”

He shakes his head stiffly, half embarrassed, half intensely focused. She strokes him gently with one hand, trying not to get too excited about this turn of events. The power of being the first one to do this to him is thrilling.

“In that case, you’re going to want a good view. Prop yourself up with pillows otherwise you’re going to give yourself a neck strain.”

He complies rapidly enough although he’s still wide-eyed and a little nervous. Once he’s settled, hands back by his sides as he promised, she considers how to proceed. She’s always enjoyed doing this for appreciative partners. There’s a creativity to it, a sensuality that only using her hands doesn’t match.

She starts by repeating that first touch, but this time she continues to gently suck at the head and roll her tongue around him until she wrenches a groan from him. She releases his cock with a pop.

“Rule two, Illya – I need you to tell me if you like this.”

His hands are gripping the sheets so hard that she thinks he’ll rip them, eyes dark and focused on her. She goes back to playing with him.

“Is all – is – good. I – yes, YES – that. Да.”

She doesn’t have to tell him again. By the time she’s taken him in as far as she can, one hand gripping the base of his shaft, he’s gasping encouragement in a mixture of three languages. Running her fingernails lightly over his balls makes him incoherent. It’s quite the power trip, and she loses track of time a little as she works him over, trying to coax even more wanton sounds from him.

He lasts longer than she expected, given this is his first blow job. She’s paying particular attention to the ridge on the underside of his cock when she feels him stiffen even more.

“Gaby – малютка – no. Stop – is – too much. Close. Too close.”

She reaches out to one of his hands, squeezing it to convey her wishes as she slides her mouth down as far as she can, and it’s the last straw. He practically whimpers as he comes, and she swallows him down, going slightly dizzy from lack of air as his hips buck and shake through what feels like a particularly intense orgasm.

His face, when she sits up, is a picture. The Red Peril, utterly blissed out. She wonders if he always looks like this after coming – she’s usually too well-fucked to notice. And on that note – she unhooks her brassiere and slips off her panties while he’s coming round. Her nipples tighten even more in the colder air above the bed; her knickers are well and truly soaked through. It’ll be a slight shame if she does have to finish herself off, but it’s worth it.

A large hand grips her wrist as she slips one hand between her legs.

“No, no. My turn.”

Illya’s expression is still slightly dazed but full of intent. He tugs her up his body, almost lifting her knees into place either side of his face. It looks like it’ll be an afternoon of firsts – she’s never been in this position before. It feels both intimate and exposed, and she can’t stop an anticipatory shiver as her hands grasp the headboard.

Illya nudges her legs wider, bringing her down towards him and parting her folds. She’s wet, swollen and so sensitive that when he exhales, the air against her clit makes her moan involuntarily. He kisses her gently and she’s close, so close already.

His hands come up to frame her hips, holding her in place to stop her wriggling as he gently nibbles at her, and she’s never had any problem with Rule Two – the words just tumble out.

“Mein Gott – Illya – ja. Mehr, _more_.”

She can feel his smile against her, the rumble of his voice, his lips against her core.

“As much as you want, малютка.”

He works her through her first orgasm, through the point where it’s almost too much and she’s writhing in his hands. But he knows her too well to stop now, knows that if he pulls back just a fraction, slows a little, she’ll come through that and yes – the tension begins to build again, and if she thought she was on fire before, it’s an inferno now.

And she knows he’s not going to use his fingers either, the bastard. Just his mouth on her, as hers was on him, and that means it will take longer to get her over the edge this time. Long, intense, almost painfully pleasurable minutes of being so close, of begging him for release, whimpering and moaning and shaking, being pushed higher and higher and dear lord if this is what happens every time she gives him a blow job, they’ll never get out of this bed again.

* * *

 

Napoleon arrives home in time for dinner, having negotiated a very reasonable discount on a couple of bottles of grand cru Bordeaux and some decent cheese from the pretty girl at the local market – peace offerings for leaving Gaby with all the intel work.

It doesn’t look like she’s got as far as he’d expected though, and the living room is dark and deserted. The flat is ominously silent and Peril’s bedroom door is open. A prickle of fear runs down his spine as he creeps into the bedroom.

His eyes adjust to the half-light, picking out the two bodies, one large, one small, sprawled across the bed. They’re tangled in the bedsheets, covered enough not to entirely embarrass themselves, but still very obviously naked. He gets close enough to reassure himself that they’re both peacefully sleeping, and then a little closer to simply appreciate the view. It’s the first time he’s actually caught them in the middle of their little love affair, and under his smug satisfaction there's a traitorous little tug in his chest that he's putting down to heartburn, even though he hasn’t eaten for hours.

He considers creeping back out to get his camera - he _is_ a spy, after all - but the slight shift in weight as he starts to turn causes the floorboard to creak, and Illya’s eyes snap open.

“Ah, Peril. Dinner will be in half an hour. I see you’ve both been working up an appetite.”

He’s almost out the door before the pillow smacks him across the shoulders.


End file.
